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copy of Atlas Shrugged .
    I stopped in front of her, looked up, cleared my throat, and said, “Excuse me.”
    She laid the book down and said, “Yeah.”
    “I wonder if you could help me,” I said.
    “Sure,” she said. When I didn’t speak up right away, she said, “Go ahead, tell me what you’re looking for, I’ve heard everything and I don’t give a shit.”
    I handed her a picture of Sydney. “You ever seen this girl?”
    She took the photo, glanced at it, handed it back. “If you know her name, I can put it into the computer and see what movies she’s been in.”
    “Not in a movie. Have you ever seen her here, in this store, or even in the area? Going back about three weeks?”
    “We don’t have a lot of girl customers,” she said flatly.
    “I know, I’m probably wasting my time—”
    “And mine,” she said, her hand on the book.
    “But if you wouldn’t mind taking another look.”
    She sighed, lifted her hand off the book, and took the picture a second time. “So who is she?”
    “Sydney Blake,” I said. “She’s my daughter.”
    “And you think she might have been hanging around here?”
    “No,” I said. “But if I only look in the places where I think she might have been, I might not ever find her.”
    She studied the picture for two seconds and handed it back. “Sorry.”
    “You’re sure?”
    She looked exasperated. “You need help with anything else?”
    “No,” I said. “Thanks anyway.” I let her get back to Ayn Rand.
    As I stepped out, a thin, white-haired woman was locking up the flower shop. A young man, mid-twenties, was obediently standing by her, like a dog waiting to be told what to do. The woman looked my way briefly but turned her head before we could make eye contact. You didn’t want to be making eye contact with men coming out of XXX Delights.
    “So we’ll see you in the morning,” the woman said to the man.
    “Yup,” he said.
    I’d talked to this woman before, shown her Syd’s picture, maybe a week ago. She’d actually taken the time to study the photo, and seemed genuinely sorry when she wasn’t able to help me.
    “Hello,” I said.
    She didn’t turn my way, although I was sure she heard me. “Hello,” I said again. “We spoke last week?” I didn’t have to struggle hard for a name. The sign in the window said Shaw Flowers . I said, “Mrs. Shaw?”
    I took a couple of steps toward her and she turned warily. But when she saw in my hand the photo the woman in the porn shop had returned to me, she seemed to relax.
    “Oh, I remember you,” Mrs. Shaw said.
    I nodded my head toward the store I’d just come from. “Still asking around.”
    “Oh my,” she said. “You didn’t find your daughter there, did you?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Well, that’s good,” Mrs. Shaw said.
    Like finding Syd there would be worse than never finding her at all.
    “Hi,” I said to the young man standing next to her.
    At first, I’d put him in his mid-twenties, but now I wasn’t sure. There was a boyishness about him, his skin soft and milky white, his short black hair cut perfectly, as though he’d just jumped out of a barber’s chair. He had the kind of looks that would make people think, even when he was in his forties, that he’d just finished school. He was slim, and stood a full head taller than Mrs. Shaw, and his eyes always seemed to be moving.
    “Ian, say hello,” she said, like she was talking to a six-year-old.
    “Hello,” he said.
    I nodded. “You work here?” I asked him. “Because I don’t remember you when I was here the last time.”
    He nodded.
    “Ian’s out on deliveries all day,” Mrs. Shaw said, pointing to a blue Toyota Sienna minivan parked near my CR-V. Shaw Flowers was stenciled on the rear door windows. “Remember my telling you?” she said to Ian. “About the man who came by looking for his daughter?”
    He shook his head. “I don’t remember. You didn’t tell me.”
    “Of course I did. Oh, you never listen.”